


Glass Bones

by chainsmokingnun



Series: Hell is Empty (All The Devils Are Here) [3]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Blackmail, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, This Is STUPID, Vampires, implied polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 08:12:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11893632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsmokingnun/pseuds/chainsmokingnun
Summary: You can be torn apart, but you'll always be brought back together.





	Glass Bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Death_Herself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Death_Herself/gifts).



> To my best friend: 
> 
> I'm so mad. Because this isn't what I wanted this to be. It's supposed to be a love letter to our friendship, but this fic is so isn't that. It doesn't even sound like you. Or me, for that matter. I'm disappointed in myself because you deserve better. So I figured I'd write my own love letter with a lot less symbolism and metaphors. 
> 
> Death, you are my best friend. You came into my life at the right time. You've loved me when I was completely unlovable. I owe you so much, I don't think I could ever repay you. You are one of the most creative, loyal, beautiful human beings I've ever met. I think that at some point in some past life we were siblings or lovers or partners in crime. I fully believe we were meant to find each other. You made my weird cold robot soul feel something. 
> 
> I've never had a true friendship, I've never felt as safe or as trusting with anyone like I have with you. It's strange that I made it eighteen years of my life without knowing your name. Now I look forward to talking to you everyday. You were kind enough to let me into your life. You weren't put off by my coldness. You weren't afraid for things to get messy, and they /did/ get messy. 
> 
> And I know I've said all that before, but I think it's worth repeating. You're amazing. My Deadpool. My brother. Literally one of my favorite people in the world. You deserve more than a weird experimental fic about gay vampires that I wrote in one setting at 2 am in a mess of emotion and weird feelings. Still, for what it's worth, I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> I look forward to our killing spree, or going off the lamb, or letting you help me ruin my future sugar daddy's fortune. 
> 
> I love you, you sexy unicorn <3

Peter loves the night. He can hear it's song. Tempting, and pulling, and drowning everyone who hears it in euphoria. 

But perhaps, his favorite time is now. When the night prepares its lover for burial. The day’s funeral shroud is beautiful. A soft mix of oranges, purples, pinks, and reds. 

They dress in black. For irony perhaps. Mourning for lives cut short and mutilated. Mourning for themselves or the people they’ve slaughtered, Peter can’t tell. His coven mates had the sense of humor of Manson girls. He knew there was some joke to be made. 

The city streets are loud and muggy. Reeking of alcohol and human stink, the unique blend of sweat, saliva, and cum. Women and men dolled up in masks. Men taking women’s husbands, women taking men’s wives. Wired bodies and searching tongues in the dark corners, away from everyone else. Lanterns dull on telephone polls and flickering lights. Gaudy plastic beads hanging from balconies and sweaty necks. 

Neena passes a joint to him, he takes a hit, hands it off to Vanessa. Smoke pours out of his nostrils like Dracul. A bottle of rum passes between them. They drink it like water. He doesn’t remember life before the change. So he doesn’t miss the effects like Vanessa and Neena do. 

He doesn’t ask questions. There was never a need to wonder. He always had his fill, was always taken care of. He had a family, in it’s own sick way. Even when Nathan wasn’t there, they shared everything. Their kill, their lovers, their bodies. What else was there to ask for? 

Then that troublesome thumping returns. Once, twice. The gray meat of his heart twitches. He ignores it and turns to Vanessa, shoving her face full of sugary candy and washing it down with cheap, bitter alcohol. 

“Don’t be a pig.” 

She smiles, grabs his chin, and kisses him. Between parted lips, he sips rum from her mouth, chill from it’s confinement. She nips his lower lip. 

“Vile dogs,” Neena says. She always got jealous when she wasn’t included. He slides his hand down the back of her skirt. Touches her just right and she starts purring. 

It’s his hands that gave him away, they said. His hair was soft like a woman’s. His lips pouty. His cheeks just the right amount of plump. But his hands were too strong, too scarred and rough to be feminine. Neena doesn’t complain. It’s quite the opposite in fact. 

Their bodies converge into the mass, this orgy of drunk animals stumbling into the club. 

More drinks. Touches and caresses from strangers, but none woo Peter long enough for him to want to stay. Pretty things lose their glory once you stare at them long enough. 

Like smoke, he drifts through the crowd. And then he smells the scent of one of his own. Oldblood. The smell of a forest after the rain, of fine wine, of blood. He purrs, lets the noise rumble like thunder in his throat. This old man speaks to no one, his eyes stay on the crowd, watching the humans. 

He’s beautiful. Tall, muscular like an Adonis. Blonde hair grown out and slicked back. Those eyes. An artist could not paint them. There was not any shade of blue in this world or the next that shined as brightly. Oddly familiar. There goes his heart again, that awful twitching. Almost like a beating, but not quite. Death had rendered that useless. 

“You look hungry,” Peter says softly.

“Because I am.” 

“Penance?” 

The older man looks down at him finally. Smiles, bitterly, “In a way.”

Peter laughs, “Are you trying to die?” 

“There much simpler ways to die than starvation, my sweet.” 

The old man’s eyes stay on the humans on the dancefloor, even when Peter breaks a bottle of cheap wine. The big blue vein that ran up his wrist gets slashed. Hot, thick, nearly black in the low lights of the club. “My name is Peter.” He says softly, watching those eyes narrow into slits. 

“Wade.” The word is barely out of his mouth before his lips are on the throbbing wound. Wade’s lips are like a caress, his teeth graze to try to widen the wound. His tongue soft and slow, like a lover’s. The smell of wine and blood, a hot, molten mouth on his flesh, blue eyes looking up at him...

Familiar. All too familiar. 

The tip of his tongue presses against the pulse point. Or where it should’ve been, had he been alive. Peter bits down on his lower lip. Wade slowly lifts his head, looking back into Peter’s face. Harsh ice breaks open his skin to see what’s inside. 

“Better?” The younger creature asks softly. Not a sign that he cared, but the way his voice curled around each syllable made him sound nearly innocent. Easy to lure in prey.  
But Wade’s eyes were almost sad. He lurches, almost predatory. He grabs his face and kisses him, desperate and searching. Peter can taste his own blood on Wade’s tongue, smell it on hot breath. His back arches into Wade’s hips, his hands searching under the older vampire’s shirt. His skin gives the illusion of warmth, smooth scars run over pale flesh. 

The twitching starts again, but this time it doesn’t stop. Like his heart is /trying/ to pump blood but it can’t. His brain is screaming, trying to force a memory through fog that won’t come. He’s been here before, he know he has because this feels too real and too familiar and…

“Who are you?” He pants against Wade’s lips when he pulls away, “What are you trying to do?” 

Those eyes looks hurt, but also relieved, “Peter…” He says his name like it’s some sort of prayer, or invocation. He presses his forehead against his. “You don’t remember me at all do you?” 

The heat of humiliation, the insinuation of ignorance, made Peter’s disposition chill, “You are not my master. You are not in my coven. Why should I know you?”

He tilts his chin and kisses him again. Peter begrudgingly lets himself be embraced again, let’s his body react to his physical pleasure rather than emotions. He doesn’t like this lack of control. His body under some sort of unseen puppetry. His mind is cloudy, he thinks this is how humans feel drunk. Fuzzy and warm and pleasant. 

His fingers get intertwined with the older vampire’s, “Let me show you.” 

Humans branch off in twos, their dull teeth trying to bite through paper thin skin. Pink tongues and sweat and hand down pleather booty shorts. But Wade leads him away from all that, into the darkness, with flickering staircase lights. Away from the sins of the flesh and into a small safe haven. Safe. Why did Wade make him feel safe? 

There was a door, but Peter was barely paying attention. Wade was occupying his entire train of thought. He wasn’t being the seductress, he was the one being seduced. The animal on the leash, being pulled by a master. And he liked it. And his heart was still moving in his chest and there were butterflies in his stomach that he thought were dead. 

“Who are you?” He asks again. Wade pulls him into the room. One of those that were rented for cheap in New Orleans. Rooms you could live in if you had a bottle of Merlot. The smell of the night pours into the room from an open window. The floor was shiny and clean, the wallpaper floral and faded. The bed is made, but it’s sheets are nearly ancient in pattern. He stands in front of a mirror, it shows it’s age unlike the creature it reflects. And Peter almost feels ashamed in the way he’s dressed. 

Like Wade deserves better than platform boots and mesh. Arms wrap around his waist, hands moving to unbutton his shorts. His fingers are feather soft against the younger man’s cock, and Peter unfurls against Wade’s body. His shorts get pulled down. Fishnets ripped, shoes kicked off, shirt pulled off. Wade kisses all he can reach, like Peter’s body is something made to be worshiped. 

“Wade,” He sighs as he is picked up and taken to the bed. Underwear slides off his hips and down his legs. 

“Fuck, you’re just as perfect as I remember…” This fingers return to wrap around his shaft, stroking gently. 

Something breaks through the fog. It’s hundreds of years before, but they’re in the same place. The wallpaper is new and crisp, the floor is carpeted instead of hardwood but the safety and need is still there. He’s under Wade, on that same bed. A Wade that looks arrogant, whose eyes weren’t as tired. This Peter is steely eyed, but he’s smiling. Mischievous. Clothes cover far too much skin and it’s clear Wade doesn’t like it, pawing and teasing at taking them all off. 

The top button of his shirt is undone, “Hm. How many have you converted today little angel?”

“Everyone keeps shutting the door in my face. Not many.” Warm hands cover a cold one, “I’ll keep trying though. Just to spite you.”

“Is there any other way to do it?” Love, Peter realizes, Wade is dripping with that forbidden emotion toward the small, weak human underneath him. Him, years ago. It shocked him. Nathan always told him he found him alone. That he was scared and near death and begging for more time. 

But when had his master ever lied before? Nathan had no reason to. Or…? 

The vision laid out in front of him shakes like a disturbed pond. Distorts and shifts until he is back in the here and now and Wade is licking him open. His back arches, electricity moving through all his limbs at once. He doesn’t remember losing his virginity. His birth into the world of the undead was met with his coven taking not only his life but his body as well. But he thinks this must be similar. The voice of his lover ringing in his ears, “He’s vile. He’d do anything to hurt me, to get to me. I can’t see you anymore.” And he remembers the heartbreak, and the balm of understanding. 

A fingertip brushes against his opening. Another memory. He’s staring his master in the eyes, and he feels fear. It would not be the last time. Nathan Summers. Cold fingers moving through his scalp, rearing his head back. 

Then pain. Nothing but intense, insane pain. 

And then it clicks. 

Fingers pull out of him and Wade slides inside him. His legs wrap around his waist and his back arches. Whole. He feels complete. 

It doesn’t feel like sex. It’s more than that. It’s a homecoming. The movements feel almost dreamlike, their skin moving against the others feels the Earth is quaking and shattering and splintering around them. 

Wade. Wade. Wade. 

Yes, he knew who this was. The man who taught him to love and how to be broken and put back together. He was torn away from his love, but now he's back. And even though his past life has told him that revenge was wrong...he feels like he knows what will happen when they leave this room. If they ever do.


End file.
